


Just Like Before

by romanticallyinept



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Begging, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom/sub, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Feelings, Guilt, Hair-pulling, Happy Ending, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Possessive Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Exchange, Sub Bucky Barnes, Top Steve Rogers, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-24 02:25:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18160235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticallyinept/pseuds/romanticallyinept
Summary: It wasn’t ever something they talked about. Bucky never said, “I gotta let go sometimes,” and Steve never said he’d always be willing to take the reins. But they knew what worked for them, even without the conversations that Steve has read about, the ones that he knows, now, are so damn important.He tries not to blame himself too much.





	Just Like Before

**Author's Note:**

> First off, a warning: this fic mentions abuse-induced PTSD (pretty general Bucky stuff). It also talks about some not-so-great BDSM etiquette. No one has any bad intentions - it's more out of ignorance than malice. If any of these things are triggering for you, please don't read!
> 
> Also, this fic's inspiration + title comes from "Scream" by Thousand Foot Krutch.

When they pull Bucky out of cryo, he collapses to his knees, unable to hold himself up for the first few moments. And Steve is grateful for Shuri and her fellow techs, because they start going through the motions of checking Bucky’s vitals while Steve chokes on guilt and arousal in equal measure. 

It’s wrong, so wrong, and Steve’s halfway to excusing himself from the room when Bucky gets to his feet and looks up and gives a little shrug and smile. 

“Fancy seeing you here, Stevie.”

Steve’s heart shatters and swells all at the same time.

* * *

It wasn’t ever something they talked about. Bucky never said, “I gotta let go sometimes,” and Steve never said he’d always be willing to take the reins. But they knew what worked for them, even without the conversations that Steve has read about, the ones that he knows, now, are so damn important. 

He tries not to blame himself too much. 

In Brooklyn, it had been different. There was no way to even pretend that Steve could _make_ Bucky do anything, not when just raising his voice was enough to trigger an asthma attack, most days. But Bucky would still come to the side of Steve’s bed and kneel on the ground, and Steve would push his fingers through his hair and tug on the strands hard enough to make Bucky whine, make his hips rut against the mattress.

Azzano changed things, and the serum did, too. Steve’s new body let him do the things he couldn’t before: pin Bucky down, make him work for every breath with Steve’s fingers, immoveable, around his throat. After the serum, Steve could fuck Bucky through an orgasm or three, get him flying high on a feeling that Steve didn’t understand, but that he was still more than happy to provide. And during the times that Bucky wanted to chase away the memories of pain by making new ones, Steve obliged, putting marks on Bucky’s skin and kissing him when he cried. He held Bucky afterwards, too, stroking his hair while murmuring that he was safe. Loved. That Steve was always going to be there, ‘til the end of the line, pal.

And then there was the train, and that was the biggest change of all.

* * *

Sometimes, Steve catches Bucky looking, watching him. The other man’s gaze is always searching, assessing, and Steve isn’t dumb enough not to notice that Bucky’s lingering looks always follow the times that Steve… forgets. When he lets steel seep into his voice, or presses his hand too firmly against the back of Bucky’s neck. 

“You okay, Stevie?”

It’s always “Stevie”. Because they never talked about it, not with so many words, but they still found ways to understand each other. “Stevie” meant they were on equal footing, that Bucky wouldn’t bend if Steve pushed. “Steve” meant that Bucky was losing all patience, either with the fights Steve picked back home, or the tactics he pulled out in the field. But “Rogers” meant something else entirely, meant that Steve got to look forward to having Bucky come apart underneath him.

After cryo, it’s always “Stevie,” and Steve feels disappointed and guilty and torn up every time. Because it was never something he needed, never something _he_ initiated, but now that it is, he can’t find the words to ask for it.

_I know you just got escaped being used by the worst people on Earth, pal, but do you mind if I use you just a little more?_

Steve gags up his lunch in the nearest toilet the first time he thinks about it. Thinks about how, in Bucky’s eyes, Steve has to be lumped in with all of Hydra’s goons under the category of “people who put me on my knees.” And he comes to the realization that Bucky watches him after he slips up to see if Steve is finally going to prove that he’s just as bad as them.

So Steve stops touching, stops talking unless he’s sure he can measure out his tone. He can’t change what he’s done, what he wants, but he can make damn sure that Bucky knows he’s safe, that the twisted desires Steve has won’t ever do him any harm.

It takes two weeks of stilted conversations and nights spent watching TV on opposite ends of the couch for Bucky to confront him. He’s _pissed_. It’s in his eyes, in the way the plates of his metal arm keep shifting, how his fingers keep curling. He looks like he wants to hit something, and Steve know it’ll hurt like a bitch, but he’ll be fine. He heals quickly. 

“Why are you still here?”

The words feel like a knife to the ribs, and Steve wants to say, “To the end of the line, remember?” but he won’t hold Bucky to that. The guy’s had enough forced on him without Steve forcing forever, too.

“You’re such a fucking martyr.”

Steve ducks his head, hands in his pockets, and lets Bucky scream at him. 

“Why the hell are you still here? Nothing is going to change. I know you were hoping for a magic fix, Rogers, but you ain’t getting one.”

Steve lets out a breath at the sound of his last name in Bucky’s drawl, reminds himself that this isn’t Germany and that Bucky’s not telling him it’s time to sneak away to a tent. And Bucky notices, because Steve’s never been subtle, and he sneers, full of cold rage that’s directed entirely at Steve.

“Yeah, I remember. Were you hoping I didn’t? I guess pretending it never happened is easier than saying something to my face.”

Steve thinks, _I’m sorry_ , but the words get stuck in his throat. 

“So.” Bucky crosses his arms on his chest, making a barrier between them. “You get to say it, now. Right here. And then you can get the fuck out.” He takes a breath, and Steve steels himself. “You tell me you’re not interested in fucking around with damaged goods.”

Steve’s head jerks up, and he meets Bucky’s eyes. They’re blazing and cold, but there’s pain there, too, because Steve knows what Bucky Barnes looks like when he’s putting on a face. 

“What?” Steve asks, and his voice sounds like it’s too far away. “I don’t… you know I don’t think that about you.”

Bucky laughs, but it’s cold and humorless. It sounds like it belongs to someone else, to _something_ else, like the soldier Shuri pulled out of Bucky’s head while he was on ice. “Right,” he says. “Ain’t nothing wrong with me, right? That’s why you’ve been avoiding me like the goddamn plague.” His shoulders slump a little, and Steve aches to reach out, to touch, to comfort. “Can’t blame ya,” he says, quietly. “Wouldn’t want someone all used up like me, either.”

A cold, horrified feeling settles in the pit of Steve’s stomach. Bucky thinks… Christ, Bucky thinks that Steve doesn’t want him, that his past has made him dirty in Steve’s eyes. 

“Buck,” Steve says, and his voice is wrecked. Bucky looks up, opens his mouth, but Steve shakes his head and says, “No,” with enough power in his voice that Bucky just… obeys. 

It’s an instant rush. Steve pushes the feeling down, though, because Bucky needs to understand that _Steve’s_ the broken one, the dirty one. 

“I couldn’t let myself treat you like they did.”

It’s in the open, now. Bucky will see, see how Steve still wants. See how hard it’s been for him not to act on any of those wants. He’ll see the monster living in his friend’s skin, and then the hate will come back and Steve will deserve every last bit of it.

But Bucky just scoffs and bites out, “Don’t give me that bullshit,” and Steve breaks.

He knows Bucky will stop him. Even as he’s pushing the other man up against the wall, pinning him by his wrists, he knows Bucky will stop him. Maybe it’ll be a permanent stop. Maybe he won’t ever have to worry about hurting Bucky again. 

But Bucky doesn’t stop him. Instead, he just lifts his chin defiantly and stares Steve down. Steve takes a breath, and his lungs fill with Bucky’s scent.

“Listen carefully,” he says, and his voice is low and serious. “Do not _ever_ imply that I would walk away from you because of your past.” Bucky’s lip curls, so Steve squeezes his wrists, hard. “Don’t fucking insult me like that.” Bucky doesn’t say anything, so Steve continues, gritting his teeth. “I can’t,” he says, and his voice cracks. “I can’t drag you back into what you just escaped. I love you too damn much to be that cruel.”

For a long moment, Bucky just holds his gaze, eyes hard and unforgiving. When he tugs on Steve’s grip, the other man lets him go, taking a step back and tensing up, waiting for _something_. But the something never comes. _Nothing_ comes. There’s just silence and tension between them and Steve can’t stand it. 

He goes to turn, to leave (he doesn’t know where he’ll go - Bucky is the closest thing he has to a home and he can’t stay here, not with how things are), but as soon as he does, there’s a cold hand on his arm, stopping him. Bucky’s grip isn’t painful, but it is tight. Steve stops. Braces himself.

“Idiot,” Bucky says under his breath. “Nothing you ever did was fuckin’ _cruel_.”

Then Steve’s back is against the wall and Bucky is in front of him, _kissing_ him, and there’s more desperation in the action than Steve likes. He knows it’s his fault - knows Bucky is desperate and unsure because Steve’s been an idiot instead of being a friend. 

So he slides a hand into Bucky’s hair and tugs just hard enough to make the other man gentle the kiss, just hard enough to make him gasp softly against Steve’s mouth. “We need to talk,” he says against Bucky’s lips, trying not to close the distance between them again. 

Bucky _whines_. “ _Please_ ,” he says, and Steve remembers a government-issued tent and vegetable oil stolen from the mess and Bucky begging under his breath as Steve slid into him painfully slow because _you gotta learn to be patient, Buck._

But even asking for patience sounds like a denial, and that’s not what Steve wants. He doesn’t want to deny Bucky anything, not when they’ve both spent so long without each other, when they’ve spent so much time _misunderstanding_ each other.

“Shh,” he says instead, and ducks his head down to press a kiss to the curve of Bucky’s neck. “I know what you need.”

They go to Steve’s room. 

The sheets are softer, because Bucky still has a hard time letting himself have nice things, so _his_ sheets are cheap and rough (and replaceable, he tells Steve, like Steve wouldn’t buy a new set every day if it meant Bucky sleeping in comfort). They go to Steve’s room, because the sheets are softer and there’s a bottle of lube in the nightstand drawer and they are _not_ going to fuck quick and rough against the wall, no matter how impatient Bucky is.

Steve strips him down piece by piece, carefully setting aside every concealed weapon, every layer of armor that, even at home, Bucky feels like he needs to wear. Steve doesn’t blame him. Safety is an elusive feeling, even for him, even after years. He sets everything aside, off the bed, until Bucky is splayed out underneath him, naked, sweat starting to glisten on his chest.

“Tell me no,” he says, and he’s back in Brooklyn and Bucky is kneeling on the ground, jerking himself off, and Steve calls him a _slut_ and Bucky gasps out a _Stop!_ “Tell me no,” he repeats. “And then tell me if you want this.”

And Bucky understands, knows that Steve isn’t making him beg. His eyes go soft and he reaches his hands up above his head, holding onto the headboard. “Stop,” he says, and Steve pulls his hands back like they’re on fire.

Then he says, “I trust you, Rogers,” and heat curls in Steve’s belly. It’s such a simple sentence, but it’s everything Steve needs to know.

Bucky’s soft when Steve leans down and licks up the side of his cock, but the man still shivers and sighs, relaxing farther back into the mattress. His arms are still up above his head, and Steve almost doesn’t ask, but Bucky’s voice is grounding and a reminder that he’s here, that they’re both there and that they both _want_ to be there.

“How many?” he asks.

* * *

_“How many?” he asks, and Bucky groans, fisting a hand in his own hair._

_“I hate you.”_

_Steve hums, giving Bucky another long, loose stroke. It’s a tease, nothing more, but Bucky’s been hard for going on an hour, and the head of his cock is swollen and purple and sensitive and every touch has him whimpering, almost loud enough for the men in the next tent over to hear. “How many?” he asks again, and traces a vein on the shaft with his fingernail._

_“Three,” Bucky bites out, and Steve always rewards him when he follows instructions._

_He ducks his head down and sucks, hard, with his lips sealed under the head of Bucky’s cock, and then the other man is biting his own wrist to stop from shouting as he comes._

_One down. Two to go._

* * *

“How many, Buck?”

“One,” Bucky answers. His voice is rough. He’s shaking. Steve kisses his ribs, both sides, scrapes his teeth over one of the ridges and watches Bucky’s cock twitch against his stomach.

The lube is cold on his fingers, and he spends minutes warming it so that by the time he presses two fingers up against Bucky’s hole, the only surprise is his touch. Bucky still jerks, sucking in a breath, but he doesn’t pull away from the touch, doesn’t let tension bleed into his thighs. 

“So good for me,” Steve praises softly, and Bucky tips his head back and closes his eyes. Steve remembers that, too, remembers Bucky always being easy for being told he was good. Before the war, too, but especially after Azzano.

One finger slides in without much resistance, and Bucky sighs, relaxing into the mattress as he lets his knees fall open even farther. It’s blatant trust, and Steve wants to drag him in close and whisper _thank you_ into his skin, because seeing Bucky like this is almost everything he needed. 

Two fingers is a stretch, but Steve curls them to distract Bucky from the burn, pressing against the spongy bundle of nerves inside him. And Bucky squirms and finally, finally, he starts to harden against his stomach. 

“So fucking beautiful,” Steve murmurs. The gears in Bucky’s metal hand whir and creak as he adjusts his grip on the headboard, and Steve knows he’s fighting the urge to argue, because Bucky _then_ would have said _prettier than any dame, right?_ but Bucky today would say _don’t need to lie to me, Stevie_ , and Steve doesn’t want to hear either of those things.

Three fingers and Bucky’s moaning, unabashed, his knees falling open of their own accord. Making space for Steve. And Steve takes it, slotting himself in between Bucky’s legs, the denim of his jeans rubbing against Bucky’s thighs and making him moan, again. He tilts his hips down, and the rough fabrics slides against Bucky’s dick, just enough to be on the right side of friction. 

Bucky sighs and shudders and trembles and it’s almost, almost enough. And maybe it’s been years, and Bucky’s body is more unfamiliar than Steve wants to admit, but it’s still _Bucky’s body_ , and Steve still knows it, knows when to stop so things don’t end too soon.

“ _Please_ ,” Bucky whines. The headboard creaks, the wood bending under Bucky’s grip, and Steve’s pretty sure he shouldn’t find it hot, shouldn’t _like_ the fact that Bucky’s control is fraying around the edges. He does, though. He likes that the knuckles on Bucky’s flesh hand are white, likes that the other man’s teeth are digging into his own lip as he tries his best to stay still. 

“Easy, Buck,” Steve murmurs, leaning down to kiss Bucky and swallow the sound he makes when Steve slowly slides his fingers out. It’s a cross between a whine and a whimper, and it tugs at Steve’s heart. “I’ve got you.”

And Bucky _does_ whine at that, eyes screwed shut and fingers tight around the headboard. “Please,” he says again, breathy and soft and desperate, and Steve just nods.

Popping the button on his pants, he pushes them down just far enough to let his cock spring free. He doesn’t bother searching for a condom - the serum will protect him from anything Bucky could possibly have. And, beyond that, he wants to put his mark back on the other man, claim him again in one of the basest ways possible. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Bucky says, and then Steve’s cockhead breaches him.

Bucky arches his back, pushing his hips farther back in an effort to get Steve deeper inside him. Steve hears the headboard crack, finally, but Bucky doesn’t move his hands, just continues to grip the broken pieces as Steve slowly sheathes himself, inch by inch.

It’s been a long time for Steve, too. Bucky is hot and tight and slick and _everything_ , and the urge to chase his own pleasure is there, tickling the back of his mind. He knows Bucky wouldn’t care, would take everything Steve had to give him willingly, but he doesn’t want Bucky to have to _take_ anything. 

Steve shifts his hips in a way that’s more memory than anything else, changing the angle, and then thrusts forward, hard. And Bucky doesn’t come from the single jab to his prostate ( _that_ was after Azzano, the first time Steve fucked him, and Steve had left fingertip-shaped bruises on Bucky’s hips that lasted for days afterward), but he does let out another punched-out little whine, his cock dribbling precome onto his stomach. 

“Already so close,” Steve murmurs, and his voice is too rough, too obviously pleased for Bucky to take it as anything other than the awe-struck statement it is. “God, Buck. Look at you. Always so fucking _pretty_ -” another thrust “- for me, spread out like this.”

“Steve!” Bucky gasps. His eyes slide open, the blue of his irises almost completely eclipsed by the black of his pupils. He’s gone, into that head space, and Steve can’t help but feel _proud_ for getting him there. It’s what Bucky needed - hell, what they _both_ needed.

Reaching down, Steve wraps the fingers of one hand around Bucky’s cock, strokes him once, twice. Then he says, “Come for me.”

And Bucky does.

Held in place by the hand around his cock and Steve’s other hand on his chest, Bucky can’t really move, can’t escape the agonizingly slow thrusts Steve continues to make as the other man rides out his orgasm. The pace is for Steve’s sake - he doesn’t want to be distracted, doesn’t want anything to hold his attention other than the elated, satisfied expression on Bucky’s face.

It’s so fucking _right_.

He slows to a stop as Bucky stops shuddering, his own dick throbbing deep inside the other man. He’s so hard it hurts, but Bucky is breathing hard, sweat shining on his chest, and Steve doesn’t want to tear him out of that place he’s in, doesn’t want to ruin the first bit of relaxation Bucky has had in years.

Underneath him, Bucky shifts, canting his hips back towards Steve. He makes a sound that’s not quite a word, but it’s plaintive, asking. Steve’s throat goes dry. Slowly, he grinds forward, expecting Bucky to wince, or push him away, but the other man just sighs and relaxes back against the pillow.

“‘s good,” he mumbles, voice thick and satisfied. His fingers flex around the broken headboard, and Steve barely pauses before reaching out, his own hands gently covering Bucky’s.

“Let go,” he murmurs, and when Bucky does, he guides the other man’s hands down to the bed, lacing their fingers together. And then, slowly, he thrusts forward, breath hitching as Bucky’s rim catches on the sensitive head of his cock. His hips stutter, and Bucky _groans_ , his cock twitching against his stomach, and that’s it. Steve comes on his next thrust, thinking about how he could fuck Bucky into another orgasm.

He pulls out as soon as he can, shifting to lay down next to Bucky and draw him in close. The other man moves slowly, eyes droopy, but lets Steve pull him into his chest, throwing his metal arm over Steve’s waist. And this is familiar too - Bucky was always lax and lazy afterwards, always more than content to let Steve cuddle him and pet his hair. Even when Steve was small, Bucky would lay down next to him, and Steve would pretend to be the big spoon even though he was half Bucky’s size.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Steve can’t help but smile at how Bucky’s voice sounds. It’s soft and sleepy. Satisfied, comfortable. Bucky finally sounds like he’s completely at ease, and that’s forty times more satisfying than the orgasm Steve just had.

“Thinkin’ ‘bout Brooklyn,” Steve answers, slowly dragging his fingers up and down Bucky’s back. He opens his mouth to say more, but Bucky just hums, turning to press his face into Steve’s chest.

“You didn’t change one bit,” he murmurs. And Steve wants to disagree, because he has changed: his body certainly has, and his mind… he’s become so much more hesitant than he used to be. He overthinks things, now; that definitely never used to be a problem. But at the same time, he knows what Bucky means. He’s still Steve Rogers, the guy who picks fights he has no business being in. The guy who’s hopelessly in love with his best friend.

“You haven’t, either,” he says into Bucky’s hair.

And that’s how they fall asleep - twisted up together in bodies that are new and with minds that carry scars they didn’t used to, but content in the familiarity of everything else. The familiarity of _them_.


End file.
